


Birds and Spaceships

by argyle4eva



Series: Wise As Serpents, Innocent As Doves [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: All the angst and twice the fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2019-11-05
Packaged: 2021-01-22 11:02:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21300977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/argyle4eva/pseuds/argyle4eva
Summary: Armageddon might have failed, but what are an unemployed angel and demon going to do afterwards? Fortunately, Aziraphale and Crowley have each other to lean on.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Wise As Serpents, Innocent As Doves [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1535606
Comments: 30
Kudos: 126





	1. In Which The World Hasn't Ended, But There Is One Prophecy Remaining

**Author's Note:**

> My first fic in a long time - thanks to Good Omens and its lovely fandom for finally lighting a fire under me again. Let me see if I remember how this goes . . .

When the bus arrived to take them home from the end of the world, Aziraphale was tired - not a tiredness of body, but one that encompassed his entire self. After all, one could hardly go through such a wild rollercoaster of events and remain unscathed, even if one was of etheric nature.

Aziraphale didn't know if he even _was_ ethereic any more, and was too tired to care.

So when Crowley chose a seat, Aziraphale didn't have the energy, desire, or need to follow their old patterns, the careful separation and arm's length ethic. He sat down beside Crowley, and took his hand.

Crowley twitched ever so slightly, but otherwise didn't react except to turn his palm upwards so his fingers could intertwine loosely with Aziraphale's. Crowley was tired, too - the subliminal buzz of nervous energy he usually gave off was gone.

The ride to London was silent, both of them lost in their own thoughts; when they reached the stop for Crowley's flat, Aziraphale followed him off the bus without comment.

***

Neither of them spoke until Crowley unlocked the door. "_Mi casa es su casa_," he said, with a hint of his typical flair, and gestured Aziraphale into what had been forbidden territory.

Aziraphale's first impression was how empty it was, how spare and ascetic. He hadn't known what to expect, had never really thought about the kind of personal space Crowley might choose to inhabit, but it wouldn't have been this. Then things began to stand out - the lean elegance of the furnishings, the odd and very personal choices of decor on display, and it began to make more sense. It wasn't what he'd expected, but it was very, very Crowley.

The second impression he got was a whiff of death, and violence. It brought him up short. Casting around for the source, he noticed a door made of a rotating stone slab (_a secret door, of course Crowley had a secret door_), wedged partially open by a puddle of empty clothing on the floor.

"Oh, yes, Ligur," Crowley said, noticing Aziraphale's focus. He spoke as if it were a mere afterthought. "I finally used that holy water you gave me." He strolled in the direction of the empty clothes, and Aziraphale, with greater trepidation, followed.

Spotting the empty bucket just inside the door, Aziraphale had a vivid mental image of events, and shuddered. He'd spent so long trying not to picture what would happen to a demon touched by holy water, fearing for Crowley, that seeing the aftermath brought back all the old fears tenfold. When Crowley moved as if to approach Ligur's remains, Aziraphale grabbed his arm.

"Let me make sure it's safe," he said, swallowing nausea and trying to slow his racing heart.

Crowley shrugged. "I stepped over before, seemed fine. I think it all reacted out, or whatever."

"Nonetheless . . ." Aziraphale concentrated, found a few molecules of holiness left, and banished them. He snapped his fingers and the empty clothing vanished, along with the bucket, for good measure. "It's safe now."

The interior of the secret room appeared to be Crowley's office, complete with a chair verging on throne status, but Crowley caught Aziraphale's arm and guided him in another direction. The stone slab, now unimpeded, swung gently shut. It helped block out some of the aura of death, and Aziraphale forced himself not to dwell on it. The lush houseplants he glimpsed off to one side were a welcome distraction - again, not something he'd expected from Crowley. They certainly seemed well cared-for.

"Not sure if either of us need any more alcohol," Crowley said, as he reached a sleek black leather sofa and plopped down. "But I've got some whisky I was saving for . . . dunno what, but something, and a few bottles of decent wine. Not much else in the cupboard, though." He took off his dark glasses and tossed them, clattering, to the equally sleek coffee table: dark wood with a marble top.

Between the two of them, they'd polished off three bottles just waiting for the bus from Tadfield. "I think I'm doing all right for alcohol just now," Aziraphale told him, and settled onto the sofa somewhat gingerly. He relaxed a bit when he found it was far more comfortable than it looked.

Internally, though, he was too tightly wound to relax. The silent bus ride had given him time to renew his physical batteries a bit, but it had also given him time to stew. Self reflection had not been kind.

Crowley rubbed at his eyes, still looking tired. "Gah, I'd love a nap right now, but we aren't out of the woods yet, are we?"

"I doubt it. Neither Heaven nor Hell are quick to forgive slights."

"And we slighted them in the slight-iest way possible."

"Indeed."

Crowley dropped his head back against the sofa. "We've still got the last prophecy. Guess we'd better get to work on that. What is it, something about playing with fire . . .?"

Aziraphale reached into his pocket and pulled out the singed scrap of paper, smoothing it on his knee. "“When all is fated and all is done, ye must choose your faces wisely, for soon enough ye will be playing with fire,'” he recited.

"Thanks, Agnes, that's clear as mud. Except the playing with fire bit - that makes sense, I suppose. We did enough of that today. Yesterday," he corrected, after a glance at his watch.

"Except the tenses are wrong," Aziraphale said, frowning, as he tried to shift into prophecy-decoding mode. "This is something that still hasn't happened yet."

"So, retribution?" Crowley asked, rolling the word around on his tongue. "Headed in our direction?"

"That would be a logical assumption. 'Playing with fire.' Agnes liked stacking literal and figurative interpretations on top of each other. So, what fire might we be dealing with? Hellfire?"

"From my side - I mean, from Hell, probably. Doesn't cover Heaven's side of things, though."

"What would be equivalent?" Aziraphale rubbed his forehead.

"Dunno? Bolt of holy lightning? Holy water?"

Aziraphale's stomach clenched, and he forced himself to breathe. "I suppose it would depend on context."

"And _there_ is a question - what's our context now? Rogues?"

"Embarrassments for certain. Traitors?"

"Ohhh, traitors, there's a thought. Because what do you do with traitors?"

"Execution is typical. And to destroy an angel or a demon completely . . ."

"Hellfire for an angel. Holy water for a demon."

Aziraphale blew out his breath, thinking. Something sounded very _right_ about that line of reasoning. His gut, or subconscious (to the extent that he possessed either), pushed his thoughts further along.

"'Choose your faces . . .' hellfire wouldn't harm you, and holy water wouldn't harm me . . ." Aziraphale faltered, with a new and horrible realization. "Or would it?" _What does it take to Fall?_

Crowley shook his head, rolling it against the back of the couch. "Trust me, angel, you haven't Fallen. If you had, you'd know. There'd be a lot more burning sulfur for one thing." He snorted. "Same as I haven't been magically Forgiven, the skies parting with sunbeams and trumpets to let me know my Heavenly membership card just got reinstated."

The bitterness in his voice was almost tangible, and Aziraphale winced.

"I'm sorry," he blurted, without meaning to.

"Buh? What for? You didn't pitch me into Hell."

"But I spent so long not _listening_ to you, and you were _right._ I was so hung up on being the 'good one' and the 'nice one' and being on the correct _side_ when it was nothing of the sort." That all came out in a burst, and not a wholly intentional one. Aziraphale had, after all, spent most of the bus ride thinking about it.

"Angel . . ."

"And you were so patient with me, even when I was being a . . . a _prat_." Aziraphale could think of more profane words, but none more accurate. "I even had the unmitigated gall to offer you forgiveness you neither asked for nor wanted. I'm sorry."

"I don't give a rat's arse about Heaven's forgiveness, but it actually meant something, coming from you," Crowley told him. "It just got lost in the end of the world. And your being a prat."

Aziraphale flinched, but it was a fair shot. "I should be the one to ask you for forgiveness," he said softly, not able to look directly at Crowley. "Forgive me?" He managed a sidelong glance.

Crowley made a dismissive, palm-up gesture, and his lips curved into a kind (far too kind, Aziraphale thought), indulgent half-smile. "Already done, angel. Don't give it another thought." His smile faded slightly. "Heaven's good at getting its hooks into you. Even better than Hell. It's not always easy to break free. Not without a long swan dive and a hard landing as a wake-up call. I knew you'd get here eventually."

"Eventually," Aziraphale said, and swallowed, glad his voice hadn't cracked on that single word. Then, making himself stumble (metaphorically) forward, he added. "But the prophecy . . ."

"The prophecy," Crowley said, encouragingly.

"If we were to trade faces - appearances - we wouldn't be vulnerable to the sorts of things that might be used against us, respectively. What would happen if we were sentenced to death, but didn't die the way we were supposed to?"

"Well, we _wouldn't die,_ for one thing," Crowley said. "That's pretty important."

"If we genuinely convinced them they couldn't harm us, that neither of us were part of their jurisdictions any more . . . that might be our way out."

"Out," Crowley said, in a hoping-against-all-odds tone of voice. "I don't know if either side cares much about double jeopardy, but it might at least buy us time while the gears grind."

They were both silent for a moment, considering, then Crowley said, "Bugger it, I don't have any better ideas."

“If we’re wrong, and they, I don’t know, put you on the farthest rock orbiting the farthest star in the Universe, and me in the deepest pit of Hell, to waste away for Eternity, we’ll feel a right pair of fools, I’m sure,” Aziraphale said, smiling but nervous.

Crowley shifted on the sofa to face Aziraphale more directly. His golden eyes, wide and unblinking, caught Aziraphale’s gaze and held it.

“If they do,” he said, slowly and deliberately, “then I will find out where you are and come to you, and break you out, and we’ll be together again. No matter how long it takes.” He raised his eyebrows slightly, with a hint of a smile. “What else is Eternity good for?”

Aziraphale blinked away the inconvenient moisture pooling at the corners of his eyes, and smiled again - shakier, but more sincerely this time. “Birds and spaceships,” he said.

Crowley’s smile widened. “Birds and spaceships,” he agreed, and held out his hand. _Shake on it_, the way they had for the Agreement, for raising the Antichrist together, for everything in the past.

Aziraphale took Crowley’s hand - then, in defiance of tradition, pulled him closer, wrapped his arm around Crowley’s shoulders, and buried his face in the angle of the demon’s (demon still?) neck and shoulder, surrounding himself with the other’s solid presence. Crowley didn’t smell like brimstone, or rot, or anything typically demonic. He smelled like dry wood and aromatic resins, like frankincense without myrrh to sweeten it, like an offering waiting to be set ablaze. The familiarity of it offered a deep, wordless comfort.  
  
Crowley held very still, but he didn’t pull away. After a few seconds his arm went around Aziraphale’s shoulders, and he turned his face to nuzzle Aziraphale’s hair, sighing deeply as he did so.

Aziraphale’s heart felt like it was breaking - not with sorrow, but with love: an incredible, overwhelming tide of love for this fierce, wonderful, impossibly loyal being he held. Since there was no need to hold it back any more, he didn’t even try.

“Oh,” Crowley whispered, and then there was a reciprocal wash of love: absolutely not angelic, or ethereal, but no less real.

_We knew,_ Aziraphale thought, with intense relief, _we knew but we didn’t dare, either one of us. It’s so good not to care any more. So good to be free. Just the two of us, now and forever._

***

Somewhere in the sprawl of Crowley's apartment, one of the many intricate, clever clocks chimed, counting off the hour, reminding them both that time was passing. It was nearly dawn.

Azirphale sighed, and pulled away from Crowley. "Soonest begun is soonest done," he said, "I hope we can do this."

"We can," Crowley said, a solid rock of faith, steadying Aziraphale. "We've got six thousand years of experience, we know each other better than anyone Above, Below, or in between."

They were still holding hands, conveniently. That made it even easier to reach out with subtle senses, feel the shapes and forms and colors they needed, and then bend matter to answer their respective wills.

After an indefinite amount of time, Aziraphale opened his eyes (which he'd apparently closed), and saw . . . himself. A mirror image, but not in a mirror. _Well, that would fool me_, he thought, disconcerted. _I hope my Crowley is as good. _

"Well, fuck me," his mirror image said, admiringly, and Aziraphale had the always-odd experience of hearing his own voice from the outslde.

"I beg your pardon?" It was nearly as strange hearing Crowley's voice from the inside, but at least he knew to expect it.

"Sorry, you wouldn't say that, would you? 'Well, I never." Crowley smiled. "If I didn't know better, _I__'d_ buy it."

"We'll have to watch our speech patterns, but . . . this really could work." Aziraphale reached for the dark glasses on the coffee table, and put them on. The light momentarily dimmed, but Crowley's slit-pupilled eyes adjusted easily, and then Aziraphale couldn't tell he was wearing dark lenses at all, outside of a slight color tint overlying his vision. _Ah, so he _can_ see when he's wearing these indoors._

A different clock chimed - early morning, now. The light filtering in through the mostly-closed blinds confirmed it.

"I guess it's time to get out there and get visible,” Crowley said. “See if we get any bites."

"Not literally, I hope. Er. Could you do one thing for me? Could you go check on the bookshop? Or what's left of it? That's what I would do, and . . . I'd like to know."

He got Crowley's indulgent half-smile on his own face in reply. "Sure, angel, I can do that. Could you check where I usually park? Adam made it sound like he was putting things back the way they were, but I'm still not sure how far that goes."

_Do I look like that when I'm hoping Crowley will do me a favor?_ "Of course," Aziraphale told him. "And then, we meet where? Somewhere public."

"Fifth alternate spot? The ice cream cart?"

"All right, then."

On the way out the door, Aziraphale concentrated on managing limbs longer than he was used to, and a skeleton that was far, far more flexible. _Good Lord, no wonder he walks like that. Now, if I can just manage not to trip all over myself . . ._


	2. In Which Mighty Efforts Are Made And Oysters Are Somewhat Involved, Though Not In The Traditional Way

After their failed executions, followed by lunch at the Ritz, a giddy pair of unemployed metaphysical entities had the glorious treat of an afternoon completely free - sweetened by the knowledge that it could be the first of many, many more.

In addition to their personal relief, the world had a bit of extra polish on it, probably because it had been entirely remade the day before. The sun was brighter, the air clearer; even ordinary humans felt the change and walked with a spring in their step.

From the Ritz, it wasn't a long walk to Crowley's Bentley, so that was the first stop. After a minutely detailed examination, Crowley admitted he couldn't find a single flaw. By then, Aziraphale was fidgeting so badly he couldn't manage to hide it even for politeness's sake, so their next stop, in the rejuvinated Bentley, was the bookstore.

Aziraphale unlocked the doors and ushered Crowley inside (all but slamming the door behind them so nobody could see and get the impression the shop was Open), followed by a delighted tour of the premises, which were almost, but not exactly, the same as he'd left them. It was like taking part in the best possible Easter egg hunt, where the hidden treasures were rare first editions rather than colorful poultry products.

Crowley followed along, smiling indulgently at Aziraphale's exclamations, but after a while his tense manner penetrated even Aziraphale's happy daze. Crowley's smiles were getting thinner, his body language more defensive, hands stuffed deeply into pockets that (Aziraphale knew from recent experience) didn't really have the extra room for hands. Furtive looks over his shoulder, a tendency to stand a little closer to Aziraphale than was normal.

"Crowley," Aziraphale asked, looking over the edge of his reading glasses. "Are you all right?"

Crowley wrinkled his nose, and waved a hand in the air, obviously getting ready to say something along the lines of, _Of course, angel, why wouldn't I be all right? I'm fine_. Then the facade crumbled, and Crowley shook his head. "I still see it on fire," he said, sounding ashamed. "With you gone, and your death in the air, and everything that was _you_ in this world being destroyed, _consumed_ . . ." he trailed off, wretched.

Appalled, Aziraphale snapped shut the book in his hand and replaced it on the shelf. "My dear boy, you should have said."

"I didn't want to interrupt," Crowley told him.

Aziraphale cringed inwardly. "Nothing in this shop is that important," he said. "Inventory can wait. Let's go somewhere else."

He did not, for once, suggest that Crowley could leave on his own. Being alone just now was not an option, for either of them.

Crowley started to object, but Aziraphale folded his reading glasses, stuffed them in his pocket, and took Crowley's elbow, ready to physically tow him from the shop, if necessary.

Their old habits had reasserted themselves, and this was the first time they'd touched since holding hands briefly to reverse their transformations (much easier going back to the old than creating the new). The tension in Crowley's body was heartrending. Without thinking, Aziraphale shifted from his hand on Crowley's elbow to his arm around Crowley's waist. Touch was good; it helped banish the specter of fear and loss they'd both suffered over the past few days. _We are __alive__, and together._

Crowley leaned into him, resting his arm on Aziraphale's shoulders, and allowed himself to be led to the door.

It reminded Aziraphale of nothing so much as two wounded soldiers assisting each other off the battlefield. _We survived, but we've both been cut, and I fear we're both just starting to bleed._

The sun was setting, the light in what artists would call the Golden Hour, and the air still held the same freshly-scrubbed flavor as it had earlier, which worked a bit of its previous magic on the two of them.

They had to stop leaning on each other so Aziraphale could lock up. As the key turned, Crowley asked, "Fancy dinner anywhere?" He sounded tired. Aziraphale wasn't even remotely hungry.

"No. Your flat, I think," he said. "And maybe that whisky you were saving for a special occasion." Then, realizing how presumptuous it sounded, he turned quickly, and added, "If that's all right, I mean. If the invitation is still good?"

Crowley managed a complex expression somewhere between a smile, a sneer, and a grimace, "'Course it's still good. Come on, angel."

The subsequent car ride was . . . bracing, and good for clearing away any last shreds of discomfort. Also very good at affirming one's faux adrenal glands were still in place and working, as Aziraphale could attest.

***

Aziraphale took a sip of whisky, savoring the vanilla/apricot/smoke/peat flavors hidden inside. They were on the black leather sofa in Crowley's flat again, with Crowley's dark glasses back on the coffee table in front of them, but the mood was much lighter than before. Upon entering the flat, Aziraphale had still gotten a shock of horror from the lingering aura of Ligur's demise, but he'd forced himself not to react. With whisky poured and conversation re-started (awkwardly at first, but flowing easily after a bit, all on topics that had nothing to do with the events of the past few days), he could almost completely ignore it.

Crowley was slumped against him, leaning on his shoulder so their heads were at the same level. They'd talked themselves out for the moment, but there was no awkwardness in the silence, just easy comfort. And love - the love they'd withheld till now, theirs to finally share, ethereal and occult together, radiating and co-mingling into a warm, happy haze.

It was all so wonderful Aziraphale couldn't help kissing Crowley. Just a peck on the cheek, a bit of simple, platonic affection, nothing more. It was a pleasant surprise when Crowley kissed him back, also on the cheek . . . then again, on the lips.

And suddenly there was _nothing_ platonic about the situation at all.

_W__ell, then_, Azirphale thought, surprised but not displeased. He leaned in, parted his lips, and tasted that delightful whisky again, this time from Crowley's mouth.

Crowley's head snapped back so quickly there was a _po__p_ when their lips disengaged. He pushed away from Aziraphale, tense: on alert, but also confused. "What was _that_?" he said. His snake-slit eye pupils had dilated to full, black circles, ringed with gold.

Aziraphale, equally confused, said, "I didn't hear anything."

"No . . . _that_." Crowley waved a hand vaguely in the air. Fortunately, Aziraphale had millennia of experience translating Crowley's nonverbal statements.

" . . . A kiss?" Aziraphale ventured. Crowley still looked lost. "With a bit of an Effort behind it? And a little tongue?"

Crowley blinked.

"An ‘Effort?' You mean _that_ kind of Effort?"

"Um, yes, pretty unmistakable, wouldn't you say?"

"I . . . wouldn't know," Crowley said, and it was Aziraphale's turn to be startled.

"Wait, you were a demon and you _haven't_ . . . ?"

"You were an angel and you _have_?"

"Well, I figured I should at least try it, as part of living among humans and understanding them. But, you, how did you manage temptations without . . .?"

"Psssh, all I ever had to do was say, _Go on, you know you want to_, and that kind of temptation took care of itself. Didn't even have to do that much, half the time. No need to get personally involved."

"You were never curious?"

"It didn't seem like anything to do with me, it was just biology." Crowley shrugged, starting to relax again.

"Oh. Well, it's nice."

That earned a raised eyebrow from Crowley. "You trying to tempt me, angel?" A challenge. A dare.

"I could, if you liked," Aziraphale said softly, reaching out and running one feather-light fingertip from the corner of Crowley's jaw to the point of his chin.

Crowley's eye pupils had been shrinking back to normal slits, but they snapped open into hungry darkness almost immediately, and he made a small, inarticulate noise in the back of his throat.

Then, because he couldn't help himself, Aziraphale added, "It'll be nicer than oysters, I promise."

Crowley sputtered, then laughed, slumping back against Aziraphale's shoulder. "Was I really that obvious?" he asked.

"Yes, you were. But you still ate three to be polite, before you gave the rest to me. I thought that was rather charming."

To Aziraphale's delight, Crowley actually blushed. "I wasn't trying to be _charming_, that wasn’t in my job description," he growled.

"How fortunate that we're unemployed now," Aziraphale told him, and kissed him again. The Effort made itself.

Crowley kissed back, no hesitation this time. Aziraphale wanted to call it 'heavenly' but that would be giving Heaven far too much credit.

After the kiss, Aziraphale paused. The next step would, of course, be to adjourn to the bedroom, but he realized he had no idea where, in this cavernous, labyrinthine abode, the bedroom might be. He was at least fairly certain a bedroom existed, since Crowley was fond of sleeping.

"Er. This next bit's usually more comfortable in bed," he said, by way of a hint.

Crowley snorted. He stood and held out his hand. "This way."

As it turned out, the trip to the bedroom was anything but a straight line, since the moment they got close to a wall, Aziraphale found himself slammed up against it, with Crowley testing out his newfound kissing skills.

It was so close to that moment in Tadfield Manor, but without Crowley's panicked, defensive anger (it had been so stupid, saying the word _nice_ to someone who could be brutally punished for it, but fortunately that was in the past), and with all the right kinds of heat, instead. It could have been a fantasy sprung to life. Aziraphale was so caught up, he didn't even mind when Crowley's long, clever fingers undid his bowtie, pulled it hissing from his collar, and flung it violently away. Instead, Aziraphale turned the tables, flipping Crowley so he was the one pinned to the wall, scarf quickly going the way of the bowtie.

Crowley might have had a moment's pause then, but he rallied quickly, and their progress turned into a rolling, pinball-bouncing trajectory involving retaliatory clothing removal, frequent kissing, and increasingly adventurous groping.

When Crowley's shirt came off, Aziraphale was greeted by a pair of nipples gone to tight, crinkled peaks. _I wonder if they're sensitive? Time to find out!_ Crowley moaned helplessly at Aziraphale's application of lips and tongue, which was a resounding _yes_.

Crowley, quick study that he was, returned the favor on the next round, and Aziraphale got his first proof that a serpentine lover could do some astonishing things in the tongue department. It was also the first hint that Aziraphale's past, congenial-but-casual tumbles might not have reflected the entirety of Earthly sexual experiences. He'd genuinely loved his past partners, in an all-of-Creation angel way, but this was different, this was _Crowley_. The love Aziraphale was feeling (drowning in, nearly) was much more powerful, and personal. It magnified every sensation, elevated every touch into something nearly holy, and transformed lust into pure intoxication.

In fact, Aziraphale realized, he was going to have to start exercising a bit of more-than-human control, or things were going to be over far too soon.

They reached a doorway, and Crowley dragged Aziraphale through it: finally, the bedroom. It was well equipped with a large, luxurious bed – perfect for sprawling. A pair of bedside lamps flicked on at a snap of Crowley's fingers, giving pleasant, but not overly bright, illumination. Crowley's official rent for a flat this size must be astronomical, Aziraphale thought, irrelevantly, because his hands were on the button of Crowley's trousers, and there were far more important things going on. At least until those things stalled for a moment, thanks to the physical realities of peeling Crowley out of his skintight jeans.

"I think I've almost got it, lean to the side a little." Aziraphale said, concentrating. He'd had to shuck out of the same trousers in Hell, of course, but it was a bit easier when one was scraping them off oneself.

"Oh, for . . . !" Crowley hissed in frustration, and snapped his fingers. Both of them were instantly, completely unclothed, and Crowley pulled Aziraphale down onto the bed in an undignified, but effective, flop.

Then it was skin on bare skin, shared warmth, mouths, hands: somewhat uncoordinated but sincere, and Crowley continued to be a very fast learner, taking excellent advantage of his body's built-in instincts now they'd finally been activated. Crowley twisted and rolled them over, so Aziraphale was pinned to the bed.

He pushed up a bit and grinned down at Aziraphale. "For the record, this completely makes up for the oysters." Lust looked very, very good on Crowley. The flush across his cheekbones, his hugely dilated eyes, the utterly wicked, sharp edges of his teeth and smile: all perfect.

Aziraphale reached up caress the side of Crowley's face with great reverence. "Oh, love," he sighed, "you are so beautiful."

Crowley blinked as both the compliment, and the endearment, struck home. He swallowed. "'Love'," he whispered. "That's new."

"I don't mean to be forward," Aziraphale told him, smiling, "just accurate." He levered up far enough to kiss Crowley, and pushed a targeted bolt of adoration past Crowley's lips (along with his tongue).

Crowley responded with a moan and a deep grind of his hips.

_Control_, Aziraphale reminded his own body. He released Crowley's mouth and said, "I want to see you, love. All of you." He could have flipped them both easily, but instead shifted his weight enough to make it a suggestion instead.

Crowley got the idea, and they rolled again, so Aziraphale could sit back on his knees, between Crowley's parted legs.

Laid out before him, on the rumpled waves of bedding, Crowley looked like a Renaissance painting - of the sort that were discreetly commissioned for large sums of money, for display only in very private settings, and which never made the public rotation at museums.

"You are positively _scrumptious_!" Aziraphale breathed, massaging Crowley's knees. "I don't even know where to begin."

Crowley (who had been doing his own admiring) wriggled in frustration. "Ngh! Anywhwere!" he growled, arching his hips.

Aziraphale laughed and took the obvious hint, running his hands up the outside of Crowley's thighs to his narrow hips, circling his thumbs in the subtle hollows, and then leaning forward to plant a soft kiss at the base of Crowley's erection. He followed that with a series of kisses and tongue flicks moving slowly upwards, encouraged by the rather impressive range of sounds Crowley was making: gasps, hisses, and one or two squeaks that were especially endearing.

He reached the head and give it a lavish tongue-swirl, followed by taking Crowley's entire length into his mouth.

"Az-, A-, _angel_!" Crowley gasped, one hand gripping the sheets as if for dear life, the other reaching up to rest on Aziraphale's head, fingers twining in his hair.

Aziraphale focused on his task, resolutely keeping his own reactions under control, and very definitely _not_ thinking about what Crowley's amazing tongue could do in a reversed situation.

Crowley was a wonderfully appreciative audience but Aziraphale had a specific end in mind. When he judged the time was right, he slipped his mouth up and off of Crowley, carefully replacing it with his hand, to make the transition as seamless as possible.

Crowley wasn't too far gone to notice, letting go of Aziraphale's head as he felt the shift. "What -"

"Sh, love, I'm not done looking at you yet." Aziraphale started working his fingers in a pattern he'd noticed Crowley seemed to like, while repositioning himself to lie alongside, where he could watch every fleeting expression on Crowley's face.

It didn't take long. A snarl, a gasp, and then bliss, wonderful bliss on those dear, familiar features. Aziraphale carried him through it, loving him more completely than he'd loved any single person or thing in his long life, and not afraid to let that knowledge shine out unimpeded.

At the end, as Crowley gasped for breath, Aziraphale gently kissed the base of his throat, inhaling the delightful, blended scent of Crowley's usual dry-wood-and-incense, mixed with sex and sweat. It was sacred, profane, and marvelous.

Crowley swallowed, and after a couple of tries, he managed to croak out a weak, "Fuck." A beat, then he brushed a few strands of damp hair off his forehead before asking the ceiling (and, presumably, Aziraphale as well), "How did _that_ ever get to be a bad word?"

"Unfortunately, anything in this world can be used for good or ill," Azirahpale said, nuzzling a line up Crowley's neck. "And even the good things can be devalued or misrepresented." His own desire, put on hold for far too long, was clamoring for attention, but he still held it back.

Crowley turned his head to meet Aziraphale's mouth with a languid kiss, which Aziraphale returned more forcefully.

"Wait." Crowley pulled back and looked at him, focusing with a hint of his usual alertness. "You haven't . . ."

"Not yet," Aziraphale told him, through slightly gritted teeth.

A slow, wicked smile curved Crowley's lips. "Well, then, I guess it's my turn to watch," he said, and long, warm, fingers slid down to wrap around Aziraphale, who threw his head back with a whimper and finally let his body do what it wanted.

"Oh, Crowley," he breathed. No other name on his lips just then, no other name that deserved to be spoken, only, "_Crowley . . ._ "

His pleasure crested with swift intensity, and he gave himself over to it, feeling, all the while, the love that wrapped around him like serpent's coils - dark and sinuous, all-encompassing, seemingly infinite, cupping around him like hand sheltering a candle's flame.

Then the slow, glowing ebb as his body relaxed and he could breathe again. He realized he was gripping Crowley's shoulder, and ran his shaky hand down Crowley's arm, letting it rest at Crowley's waist.

"Oh, love, that was . . ." words were difficult, in the immediate aftermath.

"Yeah, Crowley told him, uncharacteristically gentle, and kissed Aziraphale's forehead. "Angel," he breathed, then in a lower, thicker voice, "_my_ angel."

"Absolutely," Aziraphale agreed, and yawned. He hadn't yawned in centuries.

Crowley yawned in answering reflex and mumbled, "I want more, but I also want sleep."

"Tha's natural," Aziraphale told him. He fumbled around and shifted so he could get under the covers, helping Crowley do the same, and finding a pillow for each of them. "Sleep first."

When they were resettled, Crowley draped himself partly over Aziraphale, one leg flung over Aziraphale's, an arm around his shoulders, his head tucked under Aziraphale's chin. He didn't even bother to snap his fingers to turn off the bedside lamps - they simply blinked out.

"Stay," he whispered, not a command, but a hope.

"'Course, love," Aziraphale said. He was going to follow it with, _I'm not going_ anywhere _after that_, but fell asleep before he could.


	3. In Which Free Will Is Exercised, Vows Are Exchanged, and Dystopian Literature Gets A Bad Rap

Waking up was an unusual sensation for Aziraphale, since he rarely slept (that would, after all, cut into his reading time), but it was even more memorable waking up in the warm, intimate darkness of Crowley's bed, wrapped in the arms of an old, old friend who had (finally, officially) become something more overnight.

It was after dawn - faint light was creeping in around the edges of the blinds. Just barely twenty-four hours since they'd changed faces and gone out into the world to find their fate. It was the textbook definition of _too fast_, but things were like that, when a dam broke and everything spilled out at once.

Aziraphale didn't have Crowley's night vision, but even an angel can see fairly well in the near-dark - although most of Aziraphale's immediate vision was taken up by the untidy mass of Crowley's flame-red hair. They’d kept the same positions they'd fallen asleep in, although Crowley possibly held him even more tightly than before. _Captured by the serpent__, indeed_, Aziraphale thought, amused.

Crowley's breathing was deep and even. Aziraphale resigned himself to wait where he was until Crowley woke - hopefully he wasn't going for one of his extremely long naps. It had been an exceptional couple of days, so Crowley might need a bit of extra rest.

If it started to look like Crowley would be out for a few _decades_, Aziraphale might have to rethink his resolve to stay put, but he'd worry about that when it happened.

In the meantime, there wasn't much to do but think. Among other things, Aziraphale sent a silent apology to the human race. _I've not had the whole picture until now; a few things definitely make much more sense to me this morning than they did before. _One more learning experience in his long study of humankind.

Next up was a bit of self-inventory. He didn’t feel particularly different than he always had – going beyond his physical body, all of his angelic senses were still in place when he tested them (as best he could while lying in bed), and the bright, internal flame of his soul burned undimmed. Underneath everything, like a single, pure, eternal tone from a struck chime, was the subtle sense of God’s omnipresence, though not a direct connection to Her. Demons supposedly lost that ability to feel the Divine directly, though for all Aziraphale knew, that might be apocryphal. (It didn’t seem like something he could ask Crowley without being horribly crass.) If any Falling were to happen, it certainly should have happened by _now, _but hadn’t. So, by inference, he might not be in Heaven’s good graces, but apparently his Creator didn’t seem to mind . . . which was both reassuring (on a personal level) and disconcerting (in terms of how completely off-base Heaven had become).

At that point, his self-reflection was cut off when Crowley shifted. He loosened his serpent-hold a bit, and ran his hand down Aziraphale’s chest, as if testing his reality.

“Good morning,” Aziraphale said.

“Two words that never belong together,” Crowley responded. “But today I’ll make an exception.” He propped his chin on Aziraphale’s chest, looking at him with sleepy golden eyes.

Aziraphale smiled, and ran his fingers through Crowley’s sex-and-sleep-mussed hair - something he hadn’t had a chance to do yet, but very much wanted to try. Crowley’s hair was much softer than one would expect, and smoothed out fairly well with a finger-combing.

“Mmm,” Crowley’s eyes blinked closed and he leaned into Aziraphale’s hand. Touch for pleasure wasn’t a thing angels or demons did on their own, among themselves, but human-ish bodies have their own instincts, and their own needs. Aziraphale was only just realizing how contact-starved he and Crowley had been. It wasn’t something either of them would have noticed before, never having a reason to think about it, but now that previous emptiness sprang into sharp relief.

Crowley caught Aziraphale’s wrist and pressed a kiss to the palm, followed by a less-orthodox deep inhale, and tongue flick.

“You smell like me, now,” Crowley said, sounding infinitely pleased. “Like yourself, too, but . . .”

“Your angel, you said.”

Crowley looked at him with eyes that were a particularly luminous gold, possibly holding a touch of their own light just then. “’Love,’ you said.”

“_My_ love,” Aziraphale told him, and it was so strange, so shudderingly wonderful, to belong to someone else that way, to belong to each other, for no other reason than wanting to.

Crowley laced his fingers through Aziraphale’s. “’One flesh,’” he said, musing, “I always thought that sounded creepy, to be honest, but now I think I understand.”

“Not just flesh,” Aziraphale said, letting the ever-brimming love in his heart spill over, just a bit, through their clasped hands.

“No,” Crowley said, and dark, coiling twists of love flowed back, twining through and around the brightness, joining their hands together in a place beyond the realm of sight and touch.

Beyond _that_, there was the faintest sense of something even more subtle, some pattern being taken up, some puzzle fitting together, balances tipping, futures forming. Crowley felt it, too – it was in his eyes, his touch, his love.

“Mine,” he whispered, so softly. So deliberately.

“Mine,” Aziraphale responded, equally softly, and felt everything snap into place, choices made, destinies reset. And then, because it was traditional, he pulled Crowley closer and kissed him.

***  


One kiss led to another, and things drifted on from there, slow and lazy, unlike the headlong rush of the night before. It would still be a long time before they were caught up on touching, but they managed to make a significant payment on that debt.

***  


“You know,” Crowley said later, lying on his back with his hands laced on his chest, “I don’t think there’s actually any rule against what we just did.”

“Physically or metaphysically?” Aziraphale asked. He was lying on his stomach, arms around his pillow, and his voice was a bit muffled.

“Both. Either.”

Aziraphale considered. “Beyond just being in each other’s company, no. Anything more than that doesn’t register. I suppose nobody ever thought it was possible.”

Crowley snickered. “Were _they _ever wrong.”

Aziraphale laughed and rolled so he was on his back, mirroring Crowley’s pose, their elbows bumping comfortably. “That’s free will for you.”

Crowley turned onto on his side, facing Aziraphale. The movement put him in contact with the entire length of Aziraphale’s body. “Pretty much bollocks, isn’t it, that whole thing about angels and demons not having free will?”

“Oh, yes, I should think that’s been obvious for a long time now. At least, there’s an _option_ for free will, if one chooses to exercise it.”

“Not what you were saying back in the tenth century.”

“Well changing one’s mind is part of free will, isn’t it?”

“Free will . . .” Crowley said, rolling the words around in his mouth the way he did when he was thinking especially hard. “Not the apple, the apple doesn’t matter, it’s decision to take the apple.”

“Serpents and temptation optional,” Aziraphale said with a smile.

“Oh, but serpents make it _better_.”

“You’ve got me there,” Aziraphale admitted, and Crowley leaned forward for a kiss . . .

. . . Then stopped short, eyes wide.

“_Again?!_” he said, “This is getting ridiculous.”

Aziraphale’s heart was already beating faster, but he admitted, “It does seem excessive.”

Crowley flopped over on his back and hissed. “How do humans ever get anything _done_?”

“Not everyone partakes. And I believe it’s like alcohol – one builds up a tolerance. Eventually.”

“Hrgh.” Crowley rubbed his hands over his face. “I need to sober up. I want my brain back.”

“Agreed.”

Two Efforts switched off at once, followed by two sighs of relief.

“Don’t get me wrong, that’s fun,” Crowley said, “but not _all the time_.”

Aziraphale was silent a moment, taking mental stock, then said, “You know, I think I’d like a cup of tea.”

Crowley choked, then burst into a full-out belly laugh. “Yes, angel,” he finally managed to say. “Tea. How about that place around the corner, with those little biscuits you like?”

“That sounds lovely,” Aziraphale, somewhat absently. He was looking around Crowley’s bedroom, which was as uncluttered as the rest of Crowley’s flat. There wasn’t much space for anything to hide, especially on the floor. “Er, where did you put my trousers?”

Crowley frowned in thought. “I think out with the rest of our clothes.”

_I certainly hope so. _“Well, let’s get dressed. Tea awaits.”

Crowley rolled off the bed, buzzing with his usual energy, finally restored after the wear and tear of the last few days. He offered Aziraphale a hand up, and Aziraphale was relieved to find that touch was still a pleasure without any Effort involved.

Aziraphale was so relaxed, thinking ahead to china cups and cafe tables and a lazy afternoon with Crowley, he was wholly unprepared for what happened next.

_Empty clothes scattered on the floor, some of the__m_ Crowley’s _clothes, the lingering taste of death - of_ unmaking _\- still haunting the flat outside the refuge of the bedroom, __made worse by__ fresh memories of the legions of Hell cheering what they thought would be a horrible death for someone Aziraphale loved more than his own heart . . . _

He stumbled back a step, into Crowley, who caught and steadied him. “Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale couldn’t hide his reaction this time. He was shaking and couldn’t stop. It was difficult just to breathe, so he made himself focus on that, one breath after another.

“All right, you’re scaring me, angel. What’s _wrong_?” Crowley was still supporting him, bracing against the extra weight.

Aziraphale swallowed and closed his eyes. _Breathe and keep breathing . . ._ “You know how you felt at my shop, yesterday? Well, a demon died here, consumed by holy water, and all I can think of is you. I gave you that thermos, and then I was scared, all the time, for _years_. Scared of what could happen to you,” _of what you might do to yourself_, “and now, whenever I feel that,” he gestured blindly towards the door to Crowley’s office, “It brings everything back, at once.” He was breathing more easily now, and shifted his weight upright, leaning less on Crowley.

Crowley’s arms stayed around Aziraphale, not supporting, but not letting go. “I had no idea.”

“I was able to cover it up, before. Sorry.”

“Sorry? This isn’t about _sorry_. You shouldn’t . . .”

“Overreact, I know.”

“That’s not what I was going to say.”

“Let’s go get tea. The fresh air will help.”

Crowley looked dubious, but released him so they could gather their clothes.

  
***

Sunlight, fresh air, a nice table in a good location, tea, and little biscuits (ginger with lemon icing): it was restorative, but as Aziraphale sipped tea, he was wrestling with a dilemma.

He and Crowley were finally together – in every possible way – which was lovely . . . but they were also badly in need of a place to _be_ together.

The bookstore was right out, much as it pained Aziraphale to make that judgement. To him, it still felt like the same warm, safe haven it had always been, but for Crowley it was a monument to pain and loss.

Similarly, Crowley’s flat had much the same effect on Aziraphale, if less continuously. There was no way to remove the psychic stain of Ligur’s death except time – a very long time. And it would be there, lying in wait, always ready to strike unexpectedly. Not bad revenge for a Duke of Hell, really.

_We both feel safest where the other does not. Now what?_

Crowley had actually nibbled a biscuit and stolen a few sips of Aziraphale’s tea earlier (showing a great deal of appetite, for him), but now he was in his more usual pose, watching Aziraphale. Invisible to any observer, but very obvious to Aziraphale, little coils of concerned love were snaking out from him, reaching towards Aziraphale and then falling back, uncertain. _That_ wouldn’t do.

Aziraphale set his cup neatly in its saucer and said, “Love, I’m thinking we might need a change of scene.”

“Mmmm, I was thinking something similar. Maybe even outside London. It might not be bad to make ourselves scarce for a bit.”

Heaven and Hell were, of course, equidistant from everywhere – but London was literally on their front doorstep, with a direct gateway to both. It did make a difference.

Encouraged, a little twist of love spiralled towards Aziraphale, and this time he reached out, caught it, and held it gently. An observer would have thought he was just resting his hand on the table. Aziraphale sent a little pulse of answering feeling back down the tendril, reassuring.

“I have some ideas about that,” Aziraphale admitted. “But . . .” He thought about the time involved, atlases and maps and letters and phone calls. It would take a while, and for once he was impatient, thinking about it.

“But?” Crowley’s eyebrows arched expressively above his dark glasses.

“I think . . . I need to . . .”

“Spit it out, angel,” Crowley said, not unkindly, clearly curious.

“Learn how to use the Internet. You can show me, can’t you?”

“Uhhhhhh,” Crowley was nonplussed. “I wasn’t expecting that.”

Aziraphale deployed a pleading look.

“I didn’t say _no._ When?”

Aziraphale dabbed his lips with his napkin and prepared to stand. “Now is good.”

“My computer is back at my flat. Um, in my office. I suppose I could move it out, though.”

“I’ll be all right, if it isn’t for long,” Aziraphale reassured him. “This morning I just wasn’t ready.”

“You and the net.” Crowley shook his head “I’d call it a sign of the end times if we weren’t already past that.”

“It’s a brave new world,” Aziraphale told him, standing up.

“Oh, I bloody hope not. That book was seriously messed up . . .”

Aziraphale forestalled a long (and familiar) rant about dystopian fiction by holding out his hand. A faint blush colored Crowley’s cheeks, as he looked warily around – old habits, dying hard. He realized it, and let Aziraphale help him up out of his chair.

“All right, then, it’s a just a new world, no ‘brave” about it.” Aziraphale smiled.

But they walked all the way back to Crowley’s flat, still holding hands, and that _was _brave, at least a little bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually hadn't meant for these two to get married, formally (marriage being a human institution, after all), certainly not so early on . . . and then they went and did it themselves. Somehow, that seems very much in character for both of them, so I kept it.


End file.
